Saturday, November 29, 2014

Baptism of Love

We weren’t religious.
But drinking downstairs all alone one Friday night,
I started thinking who am I to not baptize our daughter,
sleeping upstairs, two years old,
dreaming new identities she could be like Lego characters
assembled thought by thought until
the ever-present inimitable magic of one’s being is covered up
by something old and borrowed.
Every beer was turning me more blue.

And so I tip-toed up the staircase,
passing prints of Andrew Wyeth’s artless landscapes
opening around an empty house,
until I stood above her sleeping peaceful form,
and felt the consciousness we shared as breathtaking love.
Then I touched my finger to my tongue
and prayed she’d always know she is that light of being
that had come into our disillusioned lives
to teach us what we always are.

I placed that finger on her forehead
feeling fourteen billion years as building to this second.

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